The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “Thank Christ-God! That Nigel would do. But … Nigel! My brother my dear brother? He died? At Kildrummy?”

  “No. Not at Kildrummy. He was captured. Wounded. With the others. As was I. In the burning castle. Traitors set afire the stores of food and grain in the great hall. And then, in the smoke and confusion, opened the postern to the English. We were all captured. But I escaped, on the way south I and Lindsay.

  All were taken south to Edward At Berwick. And there they were slain.

  As Wallace was slain. Hanged. Cut down while still alive.

  Disembowelled. And their entrails burned before their eyes …”

  “Ah, no! No!” A sobbing groan escaped from the King’s lips Abruptly he turned away, to stride some way along that dizzy walk and stare out over the isle-dotted vastness of the Western Sea, gripping the stonework of the parapet, knuckles gleaming white.

  Of his four brothers. Nigel had always been the favourite.

  “Nigel.

  Nigel!” he moaned.

  “What did I do to you? What did I do to you when I grasped this accursed crown?”

  Boyd stood where he was, silent, waiting, askance.

  At length the King turned back, his features set.

  “Forgive me, friend,” he said.

  “You say … Christopher Seton also? My friend.

  My sister’s husband …”

  “Aye, Sire. Drawn, hanged, and beheaded. At Dumfries. With his brother, Sir John.”

  “He … he was the first to swear me fealty! And here is how I rewarded him!”

  “The others also. All who were captured at Kildrummy. Sir John de Cambo. Alexander the Scrymgeour. Sir Alan Durward…”

  Bruce raised his hands, almost beseechingly.

  “Have mercy! Have mercy on me! It is more than I can bear. All my brave, true, leal friends…”

  “Leal, Sire-but King Edward hanged and beheaded them as traitors! And the Steward said to mind you-he will do the same to yourself, King or none. And to all with you. His young son-the Steward’s only remaining son, Walter-is with you here. He urges Sire, that you send him home. Then flee the country. Not to Ireland-for Edward’s arm is long. But to the North Isles. Orkney.

  Where my lord of Atholl takes the Queen. And thence to Norway, where Your Grace’s sister is queen. This I was to urge on you. The Steward prays you. His prayer and his advice.”

  “And yours, my friend?”

  The veteran knight looked down.

  “Who am I to advise the King?”

  “Robert Boyd has more knowledge of war than ever had James the Steward, I think. He is a good man, but no soldier.”

  The other nodded.

  “Myself, then, I say-do what is in your own mind, Sire. Mind-not heart! For you have a King’s head on your shoulders, I swear. And never did Scotland need it more!”

  For a long moment Bruce searched the man’s rugged features.

  Then he drew himself up.

  “It may be that you are right. God’s will be done, then-for I am God’s anointed, for this Scotland. But God’s will, I say-not Edward Plantagenet’s! I will tell the Steward that…”

  Bruce did not, in fact, go to the North Isles, nor yet to Norway, as

  was the temptation. That he had the means, in one of “”” Og’s galleys,

  and might be with his wife and daughter a few days, all but overbore

  him. But he steeled himself with almost the last words Elizabeth had

  spoken to him.

  “Go, and your duty.” And whatever his heart said, his mind knew where lay his duty.”

  So, at Rathlin Island, where Angus of the Isles took him, and they looked across the narrows to the shores of Ulster, Bruce decided that, as King of Scots, however ineffectual, his place was in his own realm of Scotland. He would not even go to Ireland with Angus Og -for it transpired that the real reason for the Lord of the Isles’ presence on Rathlin with almost 2,000 men, was to coordinate, with Malcolm MacQuillan of the Glens of Antrim a great joint raid on the territory of the Bissets, an Anglo-Norman family whom Edward of England had made lords of much of Antrim -and indeed of this Rathlin, also-over the heads of its native chiefs. Such raiding was typical of Isleman employment -but of no interest or use to Bruce. So he would take Angus Og at his word, borrow a galley, and sail northwards through the Isles and along the West Highland seaboard. Who could tell, he might find support up there, as well as refuge. The Earl of Ross, that far-away potentate, was as yet uncommitted in the struggle for Scotland. He might be convinced that the advantage lay with Bruce and independence, in the long run.

  This was a shrewd blow at Angus himself, for the Earl of Ross was in fact the Lord of the Isles’ rival for almost complete hegemony in the North. But the younger man did not rise to the fly, apparently content to tackle one project at a time. He stood by his promise, however, and allotted the King and his party a twenty-six-oar galley under the command of one MacDonald of Kiloran, and wished them well. If the Bruce was still in his territories when he got back from the Irish expedition, they would forgather again.

  On the 20th of September, therefore, one of the great fleet of galleys turned its back on Rathlin Island and the Ulster coast, and set off northwards into the Sea of the Hebrides. It was significant, however, that the banner which flew at its masthead, like that painted on the great square sail, was the black Galley of the Isles, not the red Lion Rampant of Scotland.

  Chapter Four

  The slanting golden afternoon sun of early October, playing on the isle-dotted, skerry-strewn sea, brought out a depth of colour, of light and shade, of sheer breathtaking beauty, such as Bruce, for one had never before contemplated. In the weeks that he had spent in the Isles, beauty had become commonplace, part of his life. But this of the level rich autumn sun in its flooding of the Sound of Eigg, was beyond all telling. The sea, blue and green and amethyst, picked out with the sparkling white of breakers on the multi-hued, weed-hung skerries, was no more than a setting for the jewelled islands that rose in aching loveliness all around, the turning heather of their flanks stained crimson, their cliffs slashed with violet shadows, their cockleshell sands dazzling silver against the refulgent gold. Without ever having been greatly concerned with natural beauty, the King’s trials, disappointments and sorrows had made him receptive to many influences which once he would have failed to perceive. And beauty such as this might put even his troubles into perspective.

  But shouts came from near by, as he leaned on the poop rail in contemplation. They were sailing northwards towards the majestic purple peaks of the Isle of Rhum, with Eigg and Muck on their starboard bow, so that he had been gazing half-right. But others had been looking in the opposite direction, half-astern to port, into the dazzle of the westering sun. And now MacDonald of Kiloran, up in the bows and shading his eyes into the golden glare, was calling back to the helmsman, near whom the King, Douglas and Lennox stood. His shouts were in the Gaelic, but the pointing hand drew all eyes.

  In all the glitter and eye-hurting brilliance of the westerly prospect, it was difficult at first to discern anything to account for the shouting. But presently, with many gesticulating, it became evident that there were solid shapes amongst all that dazzlement, even though these themselves seemed to be gleaming.

  Kiloran came longstrided down the narrow catwalk between the rowers.

  “Three galleys, two and one,” he informed.

  “And, if I mistake not, the two fly the red and gold of Ross.”

  “Ross?” Bruce echoed.

  “And that concerns you?”

  “When they chase a birl inn flying the Galley of the Isles-yes!”

  the other replied shortly. Then he was shouting again to the rowers

  and helmsman. Immediately that galley was transformed.. From

  voyaging quietly northwards on its colour-stained way from Coll to Lochalsh in the narrows of Skye, with the oarsmen pulling almost idly at their long sweeps, to the gentle chanting of a haunting melody, it became of a sudden a ship of war again, braced, tense, determ
ined.

  Round in a great foaming half-circle it swung, the sail-boom creaking, the canvas shivering and flapping, the rowers straining fiercely, the blades churning the blue water white.

  Kiloran soon was seen to be steering an intercepting course. The relief crew of oarsmen were as obviously arming themselves.

  “What do you intend?” Bruce asked of the MacDonald.

  “To teach Ross whose seas these are.”

  The other might have pointed out that, since this was still Scotland, these were the King’s seas. Also that Angus Og had lent him this galley for his purposes, not for challenging all corners. A few months ago he would undoubtedly have said so. But Robert Bruce had been learning in a hard school. He held his peace.

  His eyes were now able to cope with the glare and glister, and he could make out, perhaps two miles away, the three craft, the two larger most evidently pursuing the smaller, and overhauling it fast They were heading in an almost due easterly direction, towards the mainland, just north of the great peninsula of Ardnamurchan. How Kiloran could declare that they bore this colour or that device, Bruce did not know.

  What quickly became clear, as they themselves swept across the sea at a speed unprecedented as far as the Lowlanders were concerned, was that the hunters, from the earldom of Ross or elsewhere, were not going to be diverted by the intervention of a third party; and also that they would have closed with their quarry before the would-be rescuers could reach the scene, fast as the latter were moving.

  “It is another of your lord’s galleys? Angus Og’s?” Bruce asked, of Kiloran.

  “The Earl’s ships are far south, are they not? I would not have thought they would have dared such piracy against the Lord of the Isles.”

  “Not one of Angus’s, no. See you, there is a fish below the Galley.

  On sail and banner. That is for Garmoran. MacRuarie. Christina, of Garmoran. But of our Isles federation. Of the kin of Somerled.

  The Rossmen would scarce have dared attack one of Angus of Islay’s own.

  So we go teach them!”

  They were still almost a mile away when they distinctly heard, across the water, the crash and clash and yells as contact was made, and the two larger vessels bore in close on either side of the smaller, shearing off oars and skewering oarsmen in bloody chaos. Grappling-irons thrown in to hold the three craft together, men poured ayes into the birl inn from port and starboard, drawn swords flashing in the sun.

  The rowers in the King’s galley were now driving their sweeps in what almost amounted to a frenzy, the chanting, not to waste precious breath, superseded by the beating of time by sword on shield, in a rhythmic clanging which grew ever faster, punctuated by a sort of barking cough which was indrawn gasping breathing of fifty-two oarsmen curiously savage and menacing sound. The galley tore on in a cloud of spray.

  Now, with the other vessels almost stationary, they overhauled them at speed. The devices on the flapping sails were clear-the black galley above a long black fish; and three red lions on gold.

  “You intend to attack?” Bruce demanded.

  “What else? I shall run in at the stern.”

  “You will be outnumbered. These are larger galleys than yours.”

  “What of it? Do you count heads, Sir King, before you draw your sword?”

  “I do-if I may, yes!”

  “So does not fight MacDonald! Bide you and yours in safety here, then, Leave this to MacDonald.”

  “I mink you mistake me, sir,” the King said quietly.

  They drove in towards the stems of the three ships. Hand-to hand fighting was in progress in the well and after-parts of the birl inn bodies dropping or being tossed over the side all around.

  “What do we do, Sire?” Sir James Douglas demanded.

  “Join in? Or hold back?”

  “This is no quarrel of ours,” Lennox said.

  “It is foolhardy …”

  “Perhaps. But these MacDonalds are our hosts,” Bruce pointed out.

  “We live on their bounty. Let every man make his own choice.

  I, for my part, will pay the debts of hospitality.”

  “Sire-is it wise?” Lennox persisted, low-voiced.

  “If these are the Earl of Ross’s ships. Ross is one of your earls. A

  most powerful lord. Needlessly to offend him, for the sake of this

  Angus of the Isles! Who does not even acknowledge your suzerainty”

  “Malcolm, my friend-apart from the sacred laws of hospitality, these waters are most certainly within the Lordship of the Isles. If these are Ross’s galleys, then he is engaging in piracy. My duty, as sovereign lord of them both, is surely to uphold he who has the right of law…”

  The laws of piracy or hospitality notwithstanding, Lennox -who in fact merely hated fighting-was the only protester;

  indeed the remainder of the King’s company were all preparing

  themselves for the fray. Warriors all, they would have been grievously disappointed and resentful had their liege lord’s choice been otherwise-as well Bruce knew. After months of skulking and frustration, all were in fact itching for a fight, their master not the least.

  Their approach and run in did not go unnoticed, needless to say.

  Clearly a certain amount of disengagement was going on in the birl inn with some warriors jumping back into the two attacking ships.

  Kiloran’s tactics were uncomplicated to a degree. He merely drove his craft straight for the assailed birl inn -and therefore in between the sterns of the two galleys which closely flanked it. As they ran in, the forward oarsmen raised their sweeps high, to avoid impact, and even before the crash of collision, lessened by the rear oarsmen backing water with the expertise of long practice, grapnels were being hurled into the enemy vessels and lines tightened.

  Yelling MacDonald slogans, the first boarders were leaping over, left and right, seconds later.

  In the absence of any guidance from Kiloran, or anyone else, the King’s party acted as each thought fit They had all congregated at their own galley’s high poop and they could not be amongst the first wave of boarders. They had to jump down, and press forward along the narrow gangway between the rowing-benches, where they were jostled and pushed aside by oarsmen shipping their sweeps and rushing to join the attack. Some flung themselves over into one or other galley as best they could, but most remained in a tight knot behind the King himself.

  Bruce in fact followed Kiloran, who he guessed would make for the enemy leaders. He had clambered up over their own bow platform and on to the raised stern of the birl inn It was there that the most intensive fighting seemed to be taking place.

  Bruce, like most of his Lowland colleagues, had chosen the short battle-axe as the most practical weapon for such close fighting, where the long two-handed swords would be at something of a disadvantage. Most of the Islemen were wielding claymores, but even these were on the long side for crowded decks. Some had already abandoned them for the handier and deadly dirk.

  The King leapt down from the prow of his own craft to the poop of the birl inn a drop of about five feet across a gap of six-and almost ended his personal engagement there and then. For only a tiny portion of the crowded deck was available for leaping on, and this was already slippery with blood. Bruce slithered on landing, and fell headlong. Only a desperate effort saved him from tumbling over into the tea-an effort which was not aided by the crash of a writhing body across his own and its struggles thereafter to avoid the dirk-jabs of a third contestant, jabs which in the circumstances were just as likely to end up in Bruce as in the selected target. What might have, eventuated had not James Douglas and Gilbert Hay jumped down, to all intents on top of the sprawling trio, there is no knowing. They despatched the dirker, and pushed his wounded victim off, with scant courtesy, in some uncertainty as to which side either belonged to.

  There was no opportunity for niceties, even towards the fallen monarch. Before Bruce was fully upright again, the three of them were engaged by about half a dozen of the Rossmen, who left off their assault of a g
roup at the head of the poop steps to attend to the newcomers. Bruce, aware of a red-dripping claymore blade dashing down on him, ducked and jerked aside urgently, cannoning into Hay, and almost overbalancing again on the heaving, slippery deck. But he had clung on to his battle-axe throughout, and now brought it up in an underhand swipe, more instinctive than shrewd-which however did make contact with the attacker sufficiently to knock him back against one of his colleagues thus saving Douglas from a vicious thrust.

  But now the superiority of the short-shafted axe over the long sword-blade was quickly demonstrated, for in-fighting. Moreover, Bruce was something of an expert with this clumsy-looking weapon. Unwieldy as it seemed, it could do major damage in minimum time, not requiring anything like the precision of sword strokes, the swinging circle, or the point-versus-edge decision-for, in fact, wherever it struck or at whatever angle, it was effective, whether it hacked, slashed, shattered or merely numbed.

  Steadied back to back with Hay, with half a dozen short smashing blows Bruce had cleared a space before him, one man crashing to the deck, head opened, one disarmed and cringing a pulverised shoulder, and a third backing away, only grazed but suitably alarmed.

  But this very clearance held its dangers, for it gave room for swords to swing and thrust. The axe man had to keep close or be outranged. And he had to remember his back. Hay, a seasoned fighter, would look to that last; and Douglas, though younger and less experienced, was trained to the tourney in France, and would support both.

  So Bruce leapt forward, smiting hugely, while these strange tactics

  still confused the Highland sworders -than whom, indeed, there were few

  better. Some wore helmets, but more did not; and there was no armour,

  other than toughened leather jerkins and arm and leg paddings, save for

  a little chain-mail amongst the leaders, Most indeed were bare to the

  waist, with only tartans and saffron and targes -small round shields as protection. Plus their own agility, swiftness and great oarsmen’s muscles.

  Hay and Douglas, perceiving that Bruce had got into his stride, contented themselves with protecting his rear and flanks, backing up behind him while the King formed the driving apex of the triangle, lashing, thrashing forward with tremendous vigour and controlled accuracy. Robert Bruce, at his best, in action, was of a calibre few could rival, and few indeed would wish to challenge. He had not forced his way into the empty throne merely because he was his father’s son and of the blood of the ancient kings … How many went down before that deadly weaving axe he did not know, for apart from the disciplined determination of this close-set trio, there was great confusion aboard the birl inn -valour, yes, but little coherence or direction. The reason for this was probably the fact that MacDonald of Kiloran, having singled out the chieftain of the Rosses, had cut his way straight to him, to engage him in mortal combat-from which lesser men respectfully drew back. He had brought the other down, too, a thick gorilla of a man of middle-years and fiery red hair, with a claymore through the gullet. But he was himself thereafter slain, almost casually, by one of the onlookers, with a dirk in the back-this leaving both sides without effective leadership.